


Tristan & Isolde

by Zaadi



Series: Alternate Third Series [2]
Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaadi/pseuds/Zaadi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Uther is once again threatened, this time during Camelot's annual tournament.  Complicating matters are King Mark and his new queen Isolde, visiting on their way to Tintagel.  Lancelot also returns, bringing news that Mark may have reason to fear for his young bride's safety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tristan & Isolde

**Author's Note:**

> These stories occur in an alternate universe branching off from the end of 2.13 "The Last Dragonlord". Any similarities with canon is coincidental; i.e. I created Isolde before they did, and despite the duplicate name, I'm pretty sure the two are completely different characters (and I hope I don't confuse anyone).

 

 

**3.2 Tristan & Isolde**

* * *

In the dungeon, the man with the scar on his hand tried in vain to open the door with his mind.  Standing in the back of his dark cell, he reached out his right hand—a small _x_ of discolored skin on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger—and recited a spell under his breath.  He squinted as his eyes flashed and a tiny bead of sweat formed on his forehead.

The door remained locked and intact.  But the torches went out.

He thrust his hand forward again, but pronounced no spell, only a loud, unintelligible and disconsolate grunt.  The torches flared alight.

“Stop that, Malduc,” the King said, rounding the corner.  He was not a young king, nor an old king—and he wore all the purple, gilded trappings of kingship.  He was a dark man, with bags under his brown eyes and a tattered book in his arms.  He stood before the young man in the cell and stroked the book.

“Magic is a dying art, isn’t it?” the King said, as if to himself.  “So few practice anymore.”

Malduc tucked his arms casually through the bars, pressing his forehead against them.  “Many kings outlaw it,” he said.

This King said nothing, but continued to contemplate the book in his hands.

“Or turn a blind eye,” Malduc added sharply.

“Kings must turn the way the world turns.”

“ _Really_ —kings are passive?”

The King’s gaze snapped up to Malduc.  “You do not lament the downfall of magic?”

“You imprison me for using magic—for defending myself—and then expect me to ‘lament’ with you the downfall of magic?”

“‘Defending’ yourself.  Yes.  We all _defend_ ourselves, don’t we?”  The King stared at Malduc, both their eyes glistening in the torchlight.  The King stepped forward.  “How would you like to earn not only your freedom, but a king’s favor as well?”

*******

 

King Uther was on the edge of his seat.  In the arena before him, two knights squared off, fighting as if to the death, though it was merely a tournament.  Uther leaned back, smiling as the knights circled each other, faceless behind their helmets.  One lunged, the other dodged, Uther shifted forward—he was on the edge of his seat.

“You miss fighting,” said King Mark beside him.

“Not a bit of it—oohh,” Uther’s eyes were bright. 

One knight hit the ground.  The other removed his helmet and looked around at the crowd, sweat running into his brown eyes and down his cheeks.  His brown hair was plastered to his head and he panted for breath.  The knight bowed to Uther, bowed to Mark and bowed to the lady beside him—Mark’s brand-new bride, Isolde, beautiful and vibrant in a soft green gown.  

Isolde bowed her head politely to the knight and the woman in white next to her whispered in her ear.  Isolde chuckled softly.

“I do believe you’re beginning to enjoy yourself, my love.”  King Mark studied her face.

“Maybe I am.  My love.”  Isolde gave Mark a fleeting smile and glanced at the back of the winning knight walking away.  “But even he looked bored—and he was fighting,” she said, her accent thickening momentarily.

“Sir Tristan, son of Talloch” Mark nodded. “He’s rumored in Cornwall to be undefeatable—your son may lose his title this year, Uther.”

“You just wait,” Uther smiled, his attention pinned to the arena where Arthur and his opponent—a Sir Dafydd— had entered to resounding applause.

***

Lancelot paused at the gates of Camelot, gazing up at the grand archway and taking a deep breath.  He stepped across the threshold into the city.  As he meandered through the streets of the lower town, he caught snatches of tournament news—such as Arthur winning his first round—in less than a minute—a fact that overshadowed the actual victory, which as far as the people of Camelot were concerned was already old news.

Lancelot made his way up the steps into the stands of the arena where he found a seat.  All eyes were peeled on the fighters, and Lancelot, too, admired the skill on display.  He knew he could defeat them both, but entry into the competition was reserved for those of noble blood, a fact of life he had come to accept.  He cast his eyes over the crowd, settling on the king’s pavilion where King Uther sat with King Mark.  Uther bounced around in his chair like a giddy child, enthralled by the fight.  Mark, on the other hand, observed with detachment—Lancelot watched him, trying to gauge the criteria by which Mark was clearly assessing the fighters.  Mark leaned back in his seat, a hand to his chin.  He was several years younger than Uther, and his black hair was streaked with silver.  His dark blue eyes matched his attire.  He scrutinized each knight.  Lancelot looked again to the fighters, one victorious, one unconscious, and concluded that Mark was waiting.

Beside Mark sat a woman dressed in soft green, her hair intricately bound atop her head, a few wisps dangling in front of sculpted cheekbones and lips.  Lancelot knew she was Isolde, and had heard rumors of her beauty.  Next to Isolde sat a woman wearing white, whose braided hair circled her head.  Lancelot paused on each woman, but his eyes moved over the crowd surrounding Uther, seeking

Guinevere.

Sitting near Uther’s pavilion.  She wore a yellow bodice with quilted flowers, thin laces tied into a bow upon her breast, the violet fabric of her sleeves waving as she clapped her hands.  Her face was radiant, and her dark hair fell in tight circlets about her shoulders.  Lancelot stared at her.  She smiled at a successful dodge and winced at a particularly hard hit, as if taken aback by the force that could be involved in a tournament.  Between the matches, she glanced at the empty seat next to Uther, and for a brief instant it occurred to Lancelot that he had not seen the Lady Morgana.

The day’s matches ended before the sun had set low enough to assault Uther’s eyes, though it had set enough to cast long shadows throughout the stadium.  Exhausted, excited, diligent, the people rose to return to their duties.  Lancelot stayed seated as the crowd flowed around him, watching the deserted arena and the seats abandoned by the royal party.

He sat there until the evening star pierced the sky.  As he stood, he realized that he was not alone.  Another man, young from what Lancelot could see, sat near the fighter’s entrance, ruminating.  He wore clothes of both a peasant farmer and a lesser noble.  He did not notice Lancelot.  He contemplated the arena with the same expression as King Mark—that of a sportsman selecting prize hunting dogs.

As Lancelot left, the stranger remained, watching the dirt and rubbing the webbing of his right hand.

***

Merlin’s face was buried behind a pile of armor as he kicked the door closed behind him.  He heard the slam echo through the chambers he and Gaius shared.  He stepped forward and smacked into someone.  Arthur’s armor clattered to the floor.

“Lancelot!  What are you doing here?”

“I came to see the tournament.”  Lancelot bent down to help Merlin pick up the armor.

“Really?” Merlin dumped the armor on the table.  “Just to see a tournament?” 

Lancelot looked around.  “No,” he finally said.  “I, um . . . was also hoping . . . to offer my services to King Mark.  Where’s Gaius?”

“At the feast.  Have you eaten—I could get you in.”

“I’d be out of place.”  Lancelot poked a bottle on the shelf.

“I thought you wanted to speak to Mark.  Why would he need your services?”

“I heard that he was looking for a bodyguard for Queen Isolde.”

“Really?  I hadn’t heard anything.”  Merlin looked sideways at Lancelot.  “Why?” 

“It seems there have been threats on her life—or his—or he just wants to have one around—I’m not sure on the details.”  Lancelot sat down, sighing heavily.  “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Lancelot, you’re the best fighter I’ve ever seen.  Mark would be an idiot not to hire you.”  Merlin sat down across from Lancelot.  “Or is there another reason you think you shouldn’t be here?”

Lancelot didn’t respond for several moments, until finally: “How’s Arthur?”

“He’s Arthur.”

“Won’t he wonder where you are?”

“No.  No, I’m supposed to be polishing his armor and sharpening his sword and shining his boots.”

Lancelot bobbed his head.  “I shouldn’t keep you,” he stood.

“You don’t want anyone to know you’re here, do you?” Merlin looked up from his seat.

“There’s no point—I won’t be here long.”

“Just long enough to see if Mark really is looking for a bodyguard?”

Lancelot nodded and stared at the door.

“Then stay here—I’ll get us something to eat.”

***

It was the second day of the tournament and Morgana observed Camelot from her window.  She often stared at the city—once she’d even loved it—but now she watched with buried desperation, hoping—daring something magical to happen.  But it never did.  Not the way she wanted.  She turned around, searching her chambers.  Her bed was unmade and her breakfast uneaten.  Her wardrobe was opened, with dresses strewn about.  Books were scattered.  She leaned against the wall and turned her head back toward the window to gaze outside again.  She knew the scene was different—that different people were passing by, that there were two dogs that hadn’t been there before, that various children were running around.  And yet—it was the same view she’d watched all her life.

Her fist clenched tighter, her grip crunching the small strip of parchment in her hand even more.  She opened it up again: _I’m sorry_ , scrawled in Morgause’s careful calligraphy.

Someone knocked on Morgana’s door—she tucked the note into her dress.

“I’m bored.”  Isolde stood with her hands clasped in front of her, long pink sleeves draping down.

“Where’s Mark?”  Morgana looked at Isolde’s immaculate hair and felt her own hair falling in disarray over half her face and down her shoulders as she leaned against the door.

“That’s not what I mean.  Everyone’s caught up in this tournament, and whenever the conversation turns to something else, it’s old glories and days gone by.  I haven’t even been given a proper tour of Camelot.”

“I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“Are you busy?”  Isolde peered around Morgana into her chambers.

“No.  But you shouldn’t miss the tournament.”

“I sat there all morning—Brangene’s there now in case something spectacular happens.  I could really use a . . . lady’s perspective?” Isolde shifted on her feet.

Morgana turned to glance around her chambers, which struck her as somehow vacant despite all the luxuries.  She smiled and stepped into the hallway. 

“Shall we start in the royal gardens?” she said.

They stayed there the rest of the day, wandering among the flowers.  At twilight, they were espied by Uther from a high window in the castle.  Morgana—her black hair tangled and windswept, her green dress mixing with the flora—was laughing.

“This is the first time I’ve seen Morgana smile in weeks,” Uther said as Mark walked up behind him.  “Your young bride is quite winning.”

“Indeed she is,” Mark smiled proudly.  “I take it the Lady Morgana will be dining with us tonight, then?”

The feasts thrown by King Uther when he hosted tournaments were among the largest and most celebrated in the land.  Every contestant was invited to the table, and people caroused long into the night—a fact cited by many a loser the following day.  Upon the table were the choicest meats, fruits, breads and wines.  At its head sat Uther, in his finest regalia.  Mark and Isolde sat on one side of him, while Morgana took the place between Arthur and his father.

“Isolde tells me you’re rebuilding Tintagel,” Morgana said to Mark, interrupting talk of some glorious long-ago battle.

“As it stands now, it’s nothing but ruins,” Mark replied.  “But it’s a well fortified location—”

“On the sea,” Isolde recited.

“Across the sea, my love,” Mark laid his hand on Isolde’s, “from your father’s kingdom.”

Isolde smiled weakly at Mark.  “Didn’t your family once live at Tintagel?” she asked Morgana.

“Morgana was born in Camelot,” Uther said as Morgana looked at him, somewhat confused.  “But yes, Tintagel and the surrounding lands once belonged to her father, Gorlois.”  He sipped his wine.

“What happened?”  Morgana put down her fork.

“Sorcerers destroyed it.”

“Magic?”  Morgana’s eyes narrowed.

“It was razed to the ground—how else can you explain it?”  Uther met her gaze.

“Isn’t it supposed to be cursed?” Isolde said.

“Simple people believe anything,” Mark said as he chewed his meat.

Morgana looked to Isolde.

“Many people fled to our lands,” Isolde explained.  “I had stories when I was a babe of a terrible battle—”

“It was a massacre.”  Uther stole a subtle glance at Gaius listening in.

“—and of Cursed Tintagel Across the Sea.  But those are probably just stories,” Isolde said to her food.

“Just stories is exactly what they are, my love.”  Mark cupped Isolde’s chin.

“So who destroyed it?” Morgana asked.

“I told you, sorcerers,” Uther put his goblet down on the table, hard.

“What was the purpose behind the attack?” Arthur said, startling the kings—they’d thought him conversing with the knights beside him. 

“We never found out,” Gaius said.

“More than likely it was some rival lord,” Mark waved his hand impatiently.

“If there’s a rival for the land, then perhaps you should be careful, My Love.” Isolde glanced at Morgana as she spoke, nearly winking through her demonstration of concern.

“Cador’s certainly been complaining,” Uther said into his goblet.

“So has Ricatus in Dumnonia,” Mark said, exasperated and bored.

“Is that why you’re looking for a bodyguard?” Arthur asked.

“What?”  Isolde glanced from Arthur to Mark. 

“I heard a rumor,” Arthur said as Mark glared at him.

“It occurred to me, my love,” Mark caressed Isolde’s cheek with his finger, “that until our walls are well-fortified, it might be wise to have extra protection.  If some knight happens to impress me.”

By this time, the table had fallen silent, and every face gazed forward.  Every eye sought King Mark, every ear clung to his words.  A murmur started as the news began to spread that the prize for this particular tournament was not just a chest filled with gold, but a commission to guard the most beautiful woman in the land.

“Well, you’re committed now,” Uther said to Mark before taking another sip of wine.

***

 

Lancelot wandered through the tents where competing knights were preparing in the crisp morning air—stretching and practicing and hydrating—in various states of dress.  One had a harp out and was singing to himself, his servant hovering impatiently with armor.  Lancelot paused to listen.  A few tents away, Arthur also watched Tristan as Merlin adjusted his armor.  Lancelot stole away before Arthur spotted him.

“Watch it!”

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot said to the fully-suited knight.  As tall as Lancelot, the bulk of the knight’s armor nonetheless made him seem towering.  Lancelot, unarmed, wearing only his road-stained shirt and trousers, stepped back.  The knight lifted his metal-gloved hand and tried to strike, but Lancelot caught his wrist.

“I apologized,” Lancelot said, releasing Sir Tarquin’s hand.

“If you knew how to watch where you were going, you wouldn’t have bothered me in the first place.”  Tarquin took a step toward Lancelot, who glanced at a growing crowd of onlookers.  “You need to learn your place,” Tarquin continued.

He took a swing at Lancelot, which Lancelot lithely dodged.  Tarquin sneered and threw another punch at Lancelot, and again hit only air.  Around the two gaped a bona fide audience of fellow knights, squires and servants.  Even Tristan had abandoned his harp to watch Tarquin lunge at Lancelot, who expertly evaded and pushed Tarquin to the ground.

“What is going on here?”  Arthur’s voice rang out above the tents.  Tarquin picked himself up off the ground, and the circle of watchers parted. 

Arthur walked into the middle of the crowd.  Merlin stood behind.  Arthur’s face was hard as he glared around at everyone present.

“Lancelot?” his features softened, surprised.

“This peasant is known to you?” Sir Tarquin said. 

Arthur turned to him.  “Is there a problem?”

“He insulted me, sire.”

“And you think you’re rectifying that?” Arthur said.  

A chuckle rippled through the crowd, and Tarquin reddened.

“The tournament is over there,” Arthur announced, pointing to the arena.  He turned to Tarquin.  “And you fight first today—why would you want to tire yourself out?”

“My opponent doesn’t wish to grace me with his presence,” Tarquin glared at Tristan.  “Or is there another reason you haven’t armed yourself yet?”

“It seems I don’t need to,” Tristan kept his gaze locked on Tarquin, who tensed, jaw tight.

“Enough!  Go!” Arthur said, glaring the crowd into dispersal.  Then he hooked his arm around Lancelot’s neck and led him away. 

“Well that was obscene,” Malduc said, stepping around the corner of a tent and casually trailing after Sir Tarquin.

“Shut up, rodent,” Tarquin snapped.  “Don’t you have a job to do?”

Malduc bowed—as unctuously as he could—and watched Tarquin storm off.

***

 “I could talk to Mark for you.”  Arthur said to Lancelot.  Merlin had run off to watch the match, so the two of them were alone in Arthur’s tent.

“I doubt I’ll get an audience with him otherwise.”  Lancelot sighed and leaned against a small table that held a ewer of water.

“I could also talk to my father,” Arthur said tentatively.

“He didn’t seem very receptive last time.”  Lancelot stared at the grass by his feet.

“You didn’t even let me try last time.”

“I told you, I need to—”

“Prove yourself?  As a mercenary?”

Lancelot lifted his head, and Arthur sat down in a nearby chair.

“You should be out there,” he said.  “You’re as good as—better than—any of them.”

“The First Code of Camelot . . .” Lancelot quoted.

“Is stupid.”  Arthur leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at his hands.  “You’re the most honorable knight I’ve ever met, Lancelot.”

“I’m not a knight, sire.”

“You belong—”

“Arthur,” Gwen called from outside the tent, interrupting him.  Without waiting permission, she pulled back the tent flaps and stepped inside.  “Merlin thought I should—”

Lancelot straightened up from the table—he and Gwen stared at each other.

“Um, Merlin thought I should tell you that it’s almost time.”  She turned her shoulders toward Arthur, but her eyes remained on Lancelot.

“Tristan didn’t take long,” Arthur said. 

“How do you know Sir Tristan won?” Lancelot said, finally breaking his gaze away from Gwen. 

“Watch him fight.”

“How long has Lancelot been in Camelot?” Gwen said to Arthur.

“Not long—I can’t stay long either,” Lancelot said.

“He’s here to win Queen Isolde,” Arthur said.

“Oh,” Gwen said, turning to Lancelot.  Lancelot shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Gwen gazed around the tent until her eyes rested again on Arthur.  “Well—good luck,” she said, turning and then turning back.  “A-and also, you should know that Morgana’s feeling better—she’s—she’ll be watching you.”  Gwen stiffly bowed her head—or curtsied, it was hard to tell.

***

“Arthur really will talk to Mark for you.”  Merlin stood beside Lancelot just inside the entrance to the arena as they watched Arthur in combat against a knight named Sir Robert.

“So I keep hearing.”  Lancelot’s eyes were glued to Arthur.

“Lancelot, what’s wrong?”

“What?”  Lancelot cocked his ear to the side, his focus still on Arthur and the fight.

Merlin started to answer when a collective gasp forced his attention back to the arena.  Arthur and Sir Robert had paused.  A third sword—both Arthur and Robert still clutched theirs—protruded from the ground between them, plunged halfway to its hilt.  A fourth sword flew from one of the guards by Uther, a fifth from a knight in the crowd, and then another from one of King Mark’s men, and then another—dozens of swords started flying from all around the arena—and even from the tents outside, chased by the contestants trying to grab a hold of them.  Knights flooded the entrances to watch their swords get planted in the dirt.  Even Sir Robert’s sword was finally commandeered, though he did not release it willingly and was dragged a few inches by whatever force was at work.

When the swords stopped flying, they spelled out a message in the dirt: “Death to Uther.”

As punctuation, Arthur’s sword flew out of his hand toward Mark’s head.  Mark ducked, the sword buried deep in the wood behind him.

***

 

It was dark inside Arthur’s tent, which served Merlin since he was using magic.  Four swords hovered in the air—Merlin held his hand out and made them dance, twisting this way and that.  He turned them tip-down and plunged them into the earth, one swiftly following the other as the swords in the arena had done.  He lifted them out, again one by one, and again, down into the ground.  Something bothered him.  With one hand, he summoned one sword up and with the other he took a kerchief from the table.  He turned the sword; tossed the kerchief up—and skewered it.  The sword moved fast with magic behind it, and didn’t miss its target.  The kerchief clung just below the hilt of the sword.

Merlin realized that music had been playing.  The sword fell to the ground.  A harp and a soft voice.  Peeking out of the tent first, he went in search of its source.

He followed his ears toward Sir Tristan’s tent and found the knight sitting outside, barefoot and dressed down.  Tristan’s eyes were closed, so Merlin slowed, tiptoeing, not wanting to disturb him.

“Sneak up on a man like that,” Tristan said, his eyes still closed, “he might mistrust your intentions.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t want to interrupt.  You’re really good.”

Tristan stopped playing and looked at Merlin.  “Okay.  Thanks,” he said.  “You’re Prince Arthur’s servant, aren’t you?  Shouldn’t you be attending him?”

“He’s patrolling the city tonight.”

“Searching for the sorcerer who threatened King Uther,” Tristan nodded, putting away his harp.

“Not the best time to be out alone in the dark,” Merlin said.  “Even if you’re just playing music.”

“Thanks for the warning.  Prince Arthur won’t find the sorcerer tonight, though.”

“You think she’s going to wait until the middle of the day when Uther is surrounded by all the best knights in the land who came to Camelot just to prove themselves?  That’s pretty brazen.”

“The threat was a scare tactic,” Tristan said impatiently.  “What do you mean ‘she’?”

“Maybe,” Merlin said to himself, ignoring Tristan’s question.

“Anyway,” Tristan said, stashing his harp inside his tent, “this sorcerer’s a performer—he wants people to know what he can do.  And he—or she—is just getting started.”

“What if it’s something else?” Merlin said.

“Like what?” Tristan asked, turning toward the castle.

“I-I don’t know,” Merlin hesitated.  A thought, fleeting, had occurred to him, but had vanished before he could fully grasp it.  Tristan was right—such an ostentatious warning was a mere spectacle.  Merlin glanced around at the moonlit tents once more, feeling that they were not so deserted after all.

***

Lancelot watched two teenagers dash between houses, trying not to be seen, but laughing too loudly to actually succeed.  There was supposed to be a curfew.  They were not the only ones out—Guinevere was also hurrying along in the darkness.  Lancelot stepped towards her—to escort her home—but she was already there.  Lancelot realized he had meandered into her neighborhood—he was only a few houses away.  She kept her eyes forward as she entered her house—quickly—shutting firm her door.  Lancelot remained unnoticed—invisible in the background.

A patrol was marching nearby.  Lancelot stood still, listening to their footsteps until they passed out of hearing range.  He was not worried about the curfew; he considered trailing after the knights.  Then a shadow moved.  Instinctively, Lancelot’s hand went to the pommel of his sword.

Nothing.

Lancelot slowly backed up—casually—as though continuing on his way.  He looped around toward the shadow, intending to ambush whoever was there.  Except that no one was there.  At least, not anymore—Lancelot bent down and examined a clear set of boot-prints in the damp ground.

“Breaking curfew and cowering suspiciously in the shadows—I should definitely arrest you,” Arthur said as he approached Lancelot.  “What are you doing?”

Still focused on the tracks, Lancelot asked, “Were you standing here just now?”

“No.  Why?”  Arthur stopped right behind Lancelot’s crouching form.

“It was probably nothing,” Lancelot said, standing. 

“Lancelot, if you saw something, you need to tell me.”

“I wish I could, Arthur,” Lancelot sighed.  “I really wish I could.”

Arthur considered Lancelot for a moment.  “Did you decide to put yourself on guard duty?” he asked.  “Have you been patrolling?”

“I thought I might make myself useful.”

“My orders are to arrest _anyone_ breaking curfew.”

“Any chance for clemency?” Lancelot asked lightly.

Arthur smiled.  “All right,” he said, “you want to help—you can come with me to check in with King Mark’s men.”

They wound their way silently through the lower town, side by side, keeping their eyes peeled for anything suspicious.  Occasionally, Lancelot stopped, convinced he had heard something, but it was always just the vacated streets.  They saw no one until they were in the square outside the castle, where they spotted Merlin and Sir Tristan, talking and laughing on the steps.  Arthur sighed in annoyance.

“Merlin,” Arthur called.  Tristan and Merlin turned around.

“I’m sorry, Sire,” Tristan spoke as soon as Arthur and Lancelot were close enough.  “I borrowed your servant—just for an hour.”

“And I’m guessing I shouldn’t punish him for your impertinence?”

Tristan bowed his head.

“Where’s your servant?” Arthur asked.

“Oh—I just paid a local to help me with my armor, and he had to get home before the curfew.  I don’t actually travel with servants—I don’t see the need.  I’m a big boy.”

Merlin laughed at that while Arthur glowered.  Tristan, too, was surprised by Merlin’s reaction.

“Speaking of curfew,” Arthur said, “what time is it?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin answered.  “Nobody’s invented a tiny sundial yet that you can wear and constantly check.”

“Oh, he is insolent—you can have him back,” Tristan said.  “And that sundial wouldn’t work.”  This time, it was Lancelot who laughed—trying not to—he turned his head away to hide it.

“Arthur,” Lancelot said soberly, pulling at Arthur’s arm.  Arthur followed Lancelot’s gaze.

At the edge of the square a nine-foot-tall, broad-shouldered knight emerged from the shadows.  Its armor was pure black, and it approached with steady steps.  Arthur, Lancelot and Tristan drew their swords—almost in unison.  The black knight raised its sword in turn.

“Merlin, get out of here,” Arthur said, taking a step towards the knight.  Tristan and Lancelot each moved to one side of Arthur—the three of them formed a tiny arc, flanking the black knight.

And from the shadows surrounding the square, another sword glinted in the moonlight—unseen by Arthur nor Tristan nor Lancelot as they faced off against the black knight.

“You are not joining them?” Malduc walked up from behind Sir Tarquin.

Tarquin clenched his jaw and squeezed his sword—and then he sheathed it.  “It’s not my problem,” he said. 

“And interfering would also be against your King’s orders,” Malduc said.  He watched with pride as the black knight dodged an attack from both Arthur and Tristan.

“Is that your plan?” Tarquin indicated the knight.  “Something’s missing—like a certain king.”

“Patience.  Anyway, don’t you want to see that commoner humiliated?”

“What?” Tarquin snapped at Malduc.  In the square, Lancelot’s voice cried, _Arthur, look out!_ while Tristan examined a dark liquid on his sword.

“A peace offering,” Malduc said. 

Tarquin grabbed Malduc’s throat, jerking him forward.  “That _fleabag_ will get what’s coming to him when _I_ smash his face in.”  Tarquin’s hot breath smothered Malduc.  Shoving Malduc off, Tarquin returned his attention to the fight in the square.  The Prince’s servant was nowhere to be seen, but Arthur himself was watching Lancelot and Tristan alternate against the black knight.

_Is that thing actually bleeding?_ Arthur’s voice carried over to Malduc and Tarquin.  Indeed, the black knight’s sword was drenched in a dark liquid, though none of its three opponents showed signs of the slightest scratch.  The knight’s shield also teemed with blood, and multiple spots on its armor glistened where a sword had hit.  A smell of sulfur wafted on the air.

Tarquin laughed aloud.  “It bleeds from its armor?  Its _armor?_   Its most vulnerable spot is its armor and weapon?  Ha!”

“Yes,” Malduc seethed, “I note this flaw.”  He watched, irate, as Arthur instructed Lancelot and Tristan to move away.  Arthur squared himself in front of the black knight and threw his sword hard—it penetrated deep into the knight’s chest.  Already too weak from its wounds, the knight collapsed.

By this time, a dozen or so faces were peeking out of windows and one of Camelot’s patrols, led by Sir Taran, had arrived, swords drawn and shields ready.  From one high window, Queen Isolde and her maidservant Brangene stared.  Several townspeople had even braved the curfew to come gawk.  A soft cheer went up as Arthur retrieved his sword, though Arthur hardly noticed it.  He and Tristan and Lancelot were bent over examining the fallen knight. 

It was collapsing in on itself, melting.  Every inch of its hard, chiseled form was reverting to mud—at first it retained its knight-shape, but then became merely an oblong, pungent-smelling pile of sopping dirt.  Arthur poked it, then ordered Sir Taran to find Gaius.

And in the dark alley, Tarquin and Malduc separated.  Each walked off, pretending to be just one more onlooker among the growing many.  Merlin, who had been creeping closer and closer during the fight, saw their two figures quit the square.  He squinted and jogged even closer, trying to identify them, but they had already disappeared, leaving Merlin with nothing but two shadows.

***

 

The candles had burnt down to mere nubs smoking in the bright, early morning light.  A bird chirped and the door creaked—Merlin turned to see Morgana enter Gaius’s chambers.  She wore a pristine white dress and had her hair knotted tightly behind the nape of her neck, but her stately demeanor was belied by the bags under her red eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I was looking for Gaius.”  Unconsciously she rubbed her bare wrist.

“Are you hurt?”  Merlin motioned to her wrist with the book in his hand.  Books were strewn everywhere—results of a late night’s research.

“What?  No—I-I was hoping to get some more sleeping draught.”

“You’re using a sleeping draught?”

“ _Yes, Merlin_.  Now where’s Gaius?”

“He went to the library.  We’re trying to figure out where the Black Knight came from.”  Merlin resumed returning books to the shelf.  “Do you have any ideas?” he said casually.  “It must have taken a powerful witch to make it—I mean, how do you make something like that?”

Morgana scoffed.  “From what I hear, its armor was like fragile skin—the slightest prick and it bled like a pig.  The only witches I know of are too smart to make such a pathetic thing.  I know that if I actually knew how to use magic, I wouldn’t bother with it.”

Merlin considered this.

“But then,” he said, “it’s not just experienced witches who want Uther dead.”

“No,” Morgana sighed impatiently.  “A lot of rival kings want him dead, too—that’s the nature of kingship,” she thumbed through one of the books still on the table.  “Maybe it’s really Mark someone’s trying to kill.” 

“Or maybe an old enemy of Uther’s—like one who got away—Alvarr’s a sorcerer—we haven’t heard from him lately, have we?”

“No.  We haven’t,” Morgana slammed the book shut.

“So you think it’s a witch, then?”  Merlin reached for the book.

“What I think?” Morgana grabbed the book, pressing it against the table and forcing Merlin to meet her eye.  “What I think is that it’s strange how you used Alvarr’s name, but can’t say ‘Morgause’.  What I think is that Uther’s Purge was not as successful as he claims, and now everyone who escaped wants revenge.  I think that we’re dealing with an impotent sorcerer who can’t perform a spell right and plays games to compensate.  I think you’re too stupid to find an eagle in an aerie and the only reason no one’s killed you yet is because you constantly cower behind men like Arthur.  _What I think_ , Merlin?  I think that Morgause has nothing to do with what’s going on and I know for a fact I don’t.  Now tell Gaius I expect a sleeping draught delivered to my chamber before I retire tonight.  And not by _you_.”

***

Gaius braced himself before the court. 

Uther sat upon his throne, his fingers a pyramid in front of his face.  In a slightly smaller chair on his left sat Morgana, forward and proper and pristine—a façade of perfection.  Arthur stood, arms crossed, beside Morgana.  On Uther’s other side King Mark and Queen Isolde regarded the scene with royal dignity—Isolde was an immaculate vision, a presence that drew all eyes to her; and she stood with her right hand draped across Mark’s left, while Mark enjoyed the attention diverted from Uther.  Behind Isolde waited her maid, Brangene, while Merlin and Guinevere were stashed among the knights and nobility who lined the hall.

“I consulted with Geoffrey,” Gaius began, glancing at Geoffrey, who stood off to the side with a book in hand, ready to verify all Gaius was about to say.  “And the only incident of a knight such as last night’s was in the time of Rhydderch Hael.”

“That was hundreds of years ago,” Arthur said.

“Yes,” Gaius said.

“Rhydderch Hael was a known sorcerer,” Uther said.

“And it seems he wanted to create an impenetrable defense,” Gaius said.

“You mean an unstoppable army,” Mark interjected.

“Rhydderch Hael was renowned for his kindness,” Arthur said.  “He wasn’t interested in conquest.”

“Rhydderch the Generous,” Gaius confirmed.  “But it didn’t matter, as there were problems with the knights.  As we saw.”

“This is a _fascinating_ history lesson—how does it help us?”  Uther said.

“Unlike the druids, Rhydderch wrote things down.  If one of his books survived, it could be the source of the spell that created the knight.”

“Okay,” Arthur said, “so who sent it?”

“I don’t know,” Gaius said.  “Rhydderch died childless, his kingdom was divided—a book could have been picked up by anybody.”

“So you don’t actually know anything _useful_.”  Uther buried his head in his hands, rubbing his temples.  He turned to Arthur and sighed.  “Search the city—find this book.”

***

Camelot was chaotic.  Homes were torn apart as knights searched for a magic book and the sorcerer who had summoned the Black Knight.  No room was safe, no matter who the guest—every corner of the city was prodded.

And Prince Arthur was overseeing it all.

“If you were a sorcerer trying to kill my father, where would you hide?” Arthur asked Lancelot as they watched knights enter a home in the lower town.

“I really don’t know.”

The knights exited the house, Sir Taran shaking his head at Arthur.  Arthur indicated the next house, ignoring the eyes staring at him.    

“C’mon, Lancelot, give me something.”

Lancelot thought for a moment.  “Mark said no, didn’t he?”

“Mark’s an idiot.”

Lancelot kicked the ground.  “It’s all right—thank you for putting in a good word for me.”

Once again, the knights of Camelot exited the house of one of Camelot’s people without finding a trace of magic.  They moved on.  Arthur sighed with resignation, watching his men continue their search, peasants picking up the mess afterward.  Lancelot also surveyed the disarray.  Arthur finally called his men to halt when they came to Guinevere’s house—he knocked on the door himself.

“What do you want?” Gwen peered out.

“Less insolence from people would nice,” Arthur said.  “What are you doing home?”

“Morgana wanted to be alone; I had sewing to do.  Arthur . . .”

“I’m sorry, Gwen.”

“You know I don’t have any magic books.”

“I know a lot of people don’t have magic books.  But Camelot is being threatened—the King—my father—is being threatened—I can’t play favorites.  Please.”

Gwen sighed.  “Could you at least tell them not to break anything?” she asked as she stepped outside.  She tugged a shawl close around her shoulders and walked a few paces away, but she didn’t really have anywhere to go.  She saw Lancelot trying to blend in among the crowd of peasants.  She headed towards him but when he pretended not to see her, she changed her mind and turned around— to see three of Camelot’s knights filing slowly into her small house. 

Lancelot approached Guinevere silently—he reached a tentative hand toward her shoulder.

“My back is turned—shouldn’t you be disappearing?” Gwen said, watching three more knights enter her home.

Lancelot recoiled.  He tried to form the words _I’m sorry_ , but they wouldn’t come.  “Arthur has to do this, Gwen,” he said, standing behind her.  “He doesn’t want to.”

Outside her house, Arthur hesitated, briefly meeting Gwen’s eyes before slipping inside.

“I know,” she said.

***

“This isn’t Morgause,” Gaius said firmly.

“It has to be.”  Merlin paced the length of their chambers while Gaius perused his bookshelves, hoping to find something he’d missed.

“Merlin, I know how dangerous Morgause is, but it doesn’t fit.”

“It fits perfectly.  This is exactly what Morgause does—goes after Uther in the most roundabout way possible.”

“Sending a useless knight after Arthur?  Yes, I’d say that has little likelihood of killing Uther.”  Gaius rubbed his eyes.  “Merlin, consider how powerful Morgause is—wouldn’t she have more skill—and cunning—than this?”

“She likes to show off—I mean, c’mon—she forced her way into the city and killed every guard in her path before challenging Arthur to the death.  That display of flying swords—”

“Didn’t kill anyone.  But you’re right, Merlin, Morgause _did_ force her way into Camelot—in person—for all to see.  And the second time, she rode in at the head—”

“—of magical knights?”

“For all to see.  Morgause doesn’t hide.”

“Would we know if she did?”

“Merlin, just—as a thought exercise—consider the possibility that more than one person in this world wants Uther dead.  I don’t believe you’d mourn his passing.”  Gaius shoved a book back onto the shelf and pulled out another one.

“What if it’s two people?” Merlin’s tone softened and he stopped pacing to watch Gaius.

“Why do you say that?”

“I saw two people—I don’t know who—I didn’t get a good look—watching Arthur fighting the Black Knight.  They ran off once it was destroyed.”

Gaius sighed.  “But you think it was Morgana and Morgause.”

“Like I said, I didn’t get a good look.  Gaius, I don’t _know_ , but . . . Morgana’s destiny . . .”

Gaius squeezed his eyes shut.  “I know, Merlin.  I know.  But everything about this situation tells me we’re dealing with someone new.  Please just keep your eyes open.”

***

 

Gwen was brushing Morgana’s hair when a knock sounded at the door.  Morgana, picking through her jewelry, seemed not to hear it—she selected a necklace and held it up to her neck, examining herself in the mirror before her.  Gwen opened the door.

“May I intrude?”  Isolde asked.

Morgana turned around.  “Gwen, leave us for a moment, please.”

Gwen curtsied to Queen Isolde and shut the door behind her.

“I wanted to give you this,” Isolde held out a small vial.  “I didn’t think I’d have a chance after the banquet.  It will help you sleep.”

“How did you know I was having trouble sleeping?”

“My lady hears things.”

“Your lady?  Oh—you mean your maid.”

“Maidservant, Lady-in-Waiting—Brangene does everything.  I don’t normally indulge in gossip, but it wasn’t out of my way to make it—and it really will help.”

“You made it?”  Morgana stared at Isolde in disbelief; Isolde stared back, suppressing her pride.

“You really shouldn’t have tr—” Morgana started.

“It was no trouble,” Isolde said succinctly.

“If Arthur had caught you during his rampage, it might’ve looked suspicious.  Even if you are a queen.”

“Prince Arthur did catch me making it.  I told him it was for myself.  He very politely offered the services of your court physician.”

“ _Phfff_ —you’re safer trusting yourself,” Morgana mumbled. 

Isolde looked at her curiously, and Morgana changed the subject. 

“Did Arthur behave?  It’s not often he gets to rummage through a lady’s wardrobe.”

“And he didn’t today—I think he was intimidated by it.  No—your Prince was very considerate and respectful under the circumstances.”

“I hear Mark didn’t see it that way.”

“King Mark is offended by the search, by the suggestion that he or his men would pose a threat to King Uther.  To be honest, I was surprised by Prince Arthur’s temerity.  It’s rude to treat guests with suspicion.”

“There’s a threat to his father’s life—Arthur’s not going to be hindered by niceties.  Besides, it’s only fair after he tore apart the homes of his own people.”   

“I suppose,” Isolde said, and as she did, the door of Morgana’s chambers cracked open.

“Morgana?” Arthur said plaintively.

“Arthur,” Morgana hurried to the door, trying to shut it.  “I’m barely dressed.”

Isolde raised her eyebrow—Morgana’s hair was still loose about her shoulders and she was without jewelry, but she was hardly naked.

“Do you want to go to the banquet tonight?” Arthur entered the room despite Morgana’s protest.  He seemed not to notice Isolde.  “Do you even want to be here?”

Arthur started pacing, the mantle of his dress-clothes twisting in the air behind him.

“Of course—what kind of question is that?”  Morgana turned her back to him.  She picked up a ring and put it on a finger, then discarded it—she dug through her jewelry as if there were a particular piece she was desperate to find.

“Do you think it matters?” Arthur continued.

“Think what matters?” Isolde chimed in, but Arthur pretended Morgana had asked the question.

“The tournament—what’s the point?”  Arthur’s tone grew in urgency.

“To win the adulation of other men, last time I checked,” Morgana glanced at Arthur’s reflection in her mirror.

“What if I didn’t win,” Arthur said, his voice falling to a whisper.  “What if I’m not good enough?” 

“What?” Morgana turned around to face him.

“What do you think my father would do if I threw the fight tomorrow?” Arthur said, staring at Morgana.   “Just this once, if somebody else won, what do you think he’d do?  Would he disown me?  Declare me unfit to rule after him—all because of one tournament?  Is that what I’m doing—what this is—reminding him year after year that I can succeed—that I can succeed him—that I’m strong enough to take the crown?  I must be, right?  I keep winning all these sword fights.  I’m the toughest one!—I can be king, right?  But what if I lost one—by choice—just one tournament—what would it mean?”

“Arthur, what’s gotten into you?” Morgana asked.

“All these years,” Arthur grew more animated, “it’s just one contest after the next—one test after the next—and I can’t ever prove myself.  But I have to—I have to keep on fighting—what else is there?—organize the tournament— _hah!_ —I’ve never had to do that.  Is that what a king does, after all the fighting, just throws banquets?  I mean somebody has to organize them.  Is that why some kings fight constant wars,” Arthur turned on Isolde, “conquering other little lands, just so he doesn’t have to turn into a woman throwing parties?  There has to be more.  There’s more,” Arthur fell to his knees in front of Morgana, burying his head in her skirts.  “There’s so much more—too much—more than this—that I don’t know—I just don’t—” he peered up at Morgana, his eyes wet and desperate.

“Arthur,” Morgana tried to pry him off, “it’s just a tournament.  You win these every year.”

“Just. A. Tournament,” Arthur whispered, the words heavy in his mouth.  Morgana looked at Isolde awkwardly as she tried to get Arthur to stand up, but he continued to cling to her.  Someone knocked on the door.

“Enter!” Morgana said.

Merlin stepped inside.  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said.

“But you’ve misplaced Arthur,” Morgana said, unpeeling Arthur’s hands, finger by finger.

“No . . . no,” Arthur simpered as Merlin tried to lift him up to standing.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Merlin said.

“No . . . no . . . I can’t,” Arthur slumped his weight into Merlin’s arms; Merlin pushed him forward; Arthur fell back further, pushing away from the door.  “Please. . . . Morgana . . .”

“Don’t give me that look, Merlin,” Morgana said.

“I didn’t give you a look—I’m worried about him and I don’t know what to do.”

“Well don’t let Uther find out, for one,” Morgana said.

“You think?”  He turned desperate eyes to Arthur.  “He’s _never_ like this.”

“Never?”  Isolde asked, putting her hand to Arthur’s forehead.  “He’s sweating, but not feverish.  Prince Arthur, look at me,” Isolde cupped his face in her hands as she examined his eyes.

“Get him to his chambers and send for Gaius,” Morgana said.  “I’ll tell Uther . . . something.”

***

The corridor to the great hall was bright with torches and lined with the banners of every knight still competing in the tournament.  Those who had lost had had their banners removed with no due ceremony.  King Mark and Queen Isolde glided down the corridor flanked on four sides by Mark’s knights.   Far behind them—an honorable, proper distance behind—strode Uther, and as he passed, the guards stationed along the wall rose up subtly—an observer might think that Uther made men grow tall.

“I hope you’re not feasting without me,” Morgana scurried to Uther’s side, Gwen rushing behind her.

“You’re late,” Uther said.  “And where is Arthur?”

“Arthur’s maintaining a solitary vigil—through the night.  For me,” she smiled up at Uther.

“ _Why_ would you ask him to do that?”

“Because I want him to.  You’re not worried he’ll be too tired to win tomorrow?”

“Arthur will win this tournament just fine.  He doesn’t disappoint me.”

Mark and Isolde had paused at the closed doors leading into the banquet hall.  As Uther and Morgana caught up, knights on either side opened the doors, timing it perfectly so that Uther did not have to stop, or even slow his pace—the two kings entered the hall side by side—by design.

The half-full hall fell silent, and the handful of knights that were in attendance rose from their chairs—at least, most of them did—and they all kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact.  Servants along the edges glanced warily at each other.

“What is going on?” Uther said to the assembly.

“Your fabulous tournament,” Sir Tristan shouted from the table where he sat staring into his wine.  He was wearing just his shirt and trousers.

“Maybe they all feel ill,” Morgana offered, gripping Uther’s arm—a gesture meant to soothe—and seeking confirmation from Gaius who had just entered behind them.

But Gaius merely stared in astonishment.  “What’s the matter with everyone?” he said.

“The matter?” Tristan pushed back his chair and glared at the royal party.  The knight next to him recoiled in fear.

“A grand fight, of course—it’s _your_ matter,” Tristan stepped towards them, bare feet slapping the floor.  “Your beloved fight—that’s all that matters to you.  _Isn’t it._   What other worth could a man have but fighting?  What else could there be?” Tristan stood before Uther.  “The only man worth being called a man is a man who can kill another man, is that not right, _Sire_?”

“ _Don’t you dare call me a coward!_ ” Sir Lamorack shrieked as he ran at Tristan.  Without looking behind him Tristan dodged Lamorack and laughed; Lamorack tackled Uther instead, and when the guards pulled him off the King, Lamorack lunged at one of them.

“ _I am not a coward,_ ” Lamorack cried as he punched the knight.  “ _I am not a coward!_ ” Lamorack turned toward another knight who yelled out _no—you can’t have it!_ and threw himself back at Lamorack.  And the whole table erupted.  Some knights fought and others cowered.  The guards of Camelot filed into the hall en masse, which only exacerbated the situation.

“This is the sorcerer’s doing,” Uther fumed.   

***

Malduc scratched beneath Tarquin’s armor—it was ill-fitting and unwashed, stained from Tarquin’s sweat.  But Malduc didn’t need the armor to fit; he just needed the disguise.  Tarquin would probably be executed, but that was not Malduc’s concern—his job would be done, that was what mattered.

The King’s chambers were unguarded, which was strange in these troubling times and because Mark was rumored to be paranoid.  But Mark’s men were probably helping Uther tear Camelot apart—searching for the sorcerer—searching for him.  Malduc smiled as he entered King Mark’s empty chambers.

They were guest chambers, but lavishly furnished—fit for a king, as was to be expected.  A lush bed was draped with deep blue blankets and curtains—no accident, since that was Mark’s chosen color.  Near the bed an ornate wooden stand held a bowl and a ewer of water.  Malduc gripped the ewer—it was cold against the palms of his hands—the water was fresh, which meant that some servant had recently been in the room and was likely nearby.  Malduc exhaled with satisfaction.

Malduc drew a small vial from around his neck and pulled the stopper out.  He carefully counted five drops as they fell into the ewer.  As he tucked the vial back under his clothes he closed his eyes, listening for footsteps—but the only sound he heard was the distant stomping of knights in the streets.  So when he exited, he slammed Mark’s door behind him.  The door of the adjacent chambers—those of beautiful Queen Isolde—cracked open—Isolde’s maid, presumably. 

Malduc rushed down the hallway, smiling, and ran out of the castle.

***

Lancelot flicked grapes around on his plate.  Arthur’s plate, really, but Merlin had insisted Lancelot eat—it wasn’t like Arthur would notice.  Merlin also thought that Arthur wouldn’t actually mind if he did notice.  Still, Lancelot felt in dereliction of duty by dining while he was supposed to be protecting Arthur.  _You can do both,_ Merlin had dismissed the concern.  And anyway, Arthur mostly needed protection from himself—whatever was wrong, Arthur had become . . . unpredictable.

Lancelot had only finished half the meal and now sat in the darkness of Arthur’s chambers, watching Arthur sleep.  A heavy, stone-solid sleep—Arthur hadn’t moved since Lancelot got there.

The door creaked slowly open; Lancelot jumped up and drew his sword.  Gwen tiptoed through and gasped, nearly dropping the jug in her hands.

“Lancelot!  You scared me.”

“Likewise.”

They each smiled in relief—almost laughed—as the tension dissipated.  Gwen leaned against the door to shut it.

“I-I didn’t want to disturb him,” she said.  “I brought water.”  She set the jug down on the table.

They stared at each other.

“How is he?” Gwen finally asked.

“Good,” Lancelot said.  “I think—Gaius gave him something and he’s sleeping—peacefully, I hope.”  He took a few steps toward Arthur’s bed, as though Arthur might have disappeared or woken or otherwise done something to prove Lancelot a liar.  But Arthur was still there, curled beneath his blankets.

“He’ll be glad to know you’re here—we all are,” Gwen placed a hand gently on Lancelot’s shoulder.  Lancelot closed his eyes and inhaled.

“Why did you come?” Lancelot said, keeping his eyes closed.

“I’m worried.  Why are you here?  Surely not because you think Arthur will reward you handsomely.”  The tone of Gwen’s voice made Lancelot turn to face her.

“Merlin asked me to watch over Arthur.”

“So you’ll stay if Merlin asks you to,” Gwen said sharply, but then softened.  “Merlin didn’t ask—you offered.  You want to be here.”

“I can’t have what I want.”

“What about what other people want?  Does that matter, or do you not even care?  You certainly don’t bother to ask.”  Gwen spun around and began cleaning up Lancelot’s dinner.

“Gwen . . .”

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” she whispered.

“I thought it was better that way.  If I spoke to you . . .” Lancelot turned around and stared at Arthur.

“Then what?” Gwen said over her shoulder.

“I want to do good in this world, to stand for what’s right.  I don’t want to cause good people pain.”

Gwen moved next to Lancelot, and for a moment she, too, watched Arthur.  “Then stay,” she looked up at Lancelot’s face, her fingers brushing against his.

“You never answered my question,” Lancelot said, still looking at Arthur.  “Why did you come—you didn’t know anyone else was here.”

“I told you.  I’m worried.  No one knows what’s going on.”

“You came to watch over him.”

“Lancelot . . .”

“You should be here.”

“Don’t go,” she grabbed his arm.  “Please.”

Lancelot brought his fingers to her cheek.  “It’s funny,” he said, “Camelot always seems brighter than every other place I’ve ever been, even when it’s under attack.”

Gwen smiled—a small, sad smile—and leaned her face into Lancelot’s hand.

“This sorcerer will avoid knights,” Lancelot said.  “One advantage to being a peasant—he won’t notice me.  I can do more out there.”  Lancelot lifted her hand to his lips.  “Take care of him,” he said. 

And left.

Outside, the humid night air promised rain, though the sky was clear and the ground dry.  Camelot was deserted except for the distant tumping of boots as patrols toured the city.  Lancelot gripped the pommel of his sword as he walked, wondering where a sorcerer might hide—with so many people in Camelot for the tournament, it would be easy to blend in.

“Louse!”

Lancelot pivoted, drawing his sword—Sir Tarquin rushed forward—he was closer than Lancelot anticipated.  Tarquin pointed the tip of his sword at Lancelot.

“You think you’re good enough to lick my shoes?  You’re not good enough to lick my _horse’s shoes_!”

“Right,” Lancelot said, securing his grip on his sword.

“How is it that vermin like you keep showing up?—you’re animals compared to the lords and ladies of a proper court.  A real court.  Where everybody knows his place.”  Tarquin circled Lancelot, and Lancelot rotated to keep Tarquin in front of him.  “You’re not taught,” Tarquin pointed his sword again.  “That’s the problem—and now you think you can steal from nobility,” Tarquin lunged at Lancelot, a burst of shaking rage—Lancelot dodged it, but Tarquin kept coming at him.  “You. Do. Not. Belong!”  Tarquin’s technique was lost; no pretense of skill—only the wild, unpredictable thrusts of a berserker.  “You have no right to knighthood,” Tarquin continued.  “You can’t fight!—just like that rat Malduc can’t win a king’s favor—his tricks will only ever make him the court jester—and that’s more than he deserves.  You will learn— _all of you_ will learn to bow down before your betters— _you are nothing compared to us!_ ”

Lancelot was still defending himself when a patrol rounded the corner.  There were a dozen onlookers as well, concealed in the shadows—braving the curfew to see the commotion.

Malduc was one of them.

Feeling secure in a narrow alleyway, he was removing Tarquin’s armor as he watched the patrol separate Lancelot and Tarquin.  Lancelot yielded gladly, but Tarquin refused to give up—he threatened to turn the scene into a one-man riot.  Self-satisfied, Malduc lifted a cloak from behind a barrel, and walked away, the hood pulled low over his face.

And as he rounded one corner out of the ally, Brangene rounded the corner behind him into the alley.  She wore a dark-grey cloak over her white dress and wielded a dagger in her right hand.  She scanned the alley.  Tarquin’s armor was discarded on the ground—no attempt to hide it.  Brangene slipped her dagger into her boot, and bent down to examine the armor.  Recognizing the crest, she glanced at the corner where Malduc had disappeared; she looked to the mob of knights and recognized Tarquin—trying desperately to get at a peasant, but being restrained by four knights.  One of them—a Sir Cadoc, one of Uther’s finest—was talking to Tarquin, trying to dissuade him.  But Tarquin kept struggling.  Cadoc finally told the peasant to leave, and the entire patrol dragged Tarquin away.  Drawing her dagger again from her boot, Brangene peeked around the corner where she had last seen Malduc. 

No one was there.

***

A servant had already lit the numerous candles in Mark’s chambers when he entered.  A fire was also burning, and a window was half-open, circulating fresh air into the room.  Mark removed his formal mantle—the outer-most layer of dress-wear—and one of the servants who had followed him in caught it up, brushing it off and placing it delicately in the wardrobe.

Mark turned up his sleeves and held his hands over the wash basin on the ornate wooden stand.  The other servant poured water from the ewer over Mark’s hands as he twisted and flipped them, wetting every inch.  When the bowl was full, the servant replaced the ewer and went to attend to Mark’s bed, turning down the sheets and fluffing the pillows.  The first servant put bricks into the fire to warm the bed.

Mark plunged his hands into the bowl, scooping water to his face.  He rubbed his chin, and with one cupped hand filled his mouth. He swished and gargled and spit back into the bowl.  The servant by the fireplace rushed over with a towel.  As he patted Mark’s hands dry, Mark wavered, blinking his eyes as if trying to clear his vision.  He stumbled, caught himself on the stand, clenched at his servant, and fell to the floor.

***

Lancelot, exhausted, was glad to see the window of Merlin’s room some ways up the side of the building, even if the window was dark.

“Did you even break a sweat?” Malduc asked behind him.

Lancelot swung around, drawing his sword.  When he saw the strangely dressed man standing unarmed before him, he put his sword away.  But what a man, who seemed to have stolen half his wardrobe from a nobleman—otherwise wearing peasant dress—was doing in the deserted streets kept Lancelot wary.

“I saw you fighting Tarquin,” Malduc noticed Lancelot’s unease.  “I’m sorry, _Sir_ Tarquin,” Malduc rolled his eyes.  “Are you even out of breath?”

“I’m sorry—who are you?” Lancelot’s hand stayed glued to his sword.

“A fellow traveler.”

“I’ve never traveled any road with you.”

“As in a kindred spirit—don’t be obtuse.”

“I see.”  Lancelot eyed Malduc, memorizing every single feature that he could in the moonlight.

“We’re both poor folk trying to forge a better life through wit and skill of hand.  But arrogant twits keep judging us by the smell of our parents rather than what we can do.”

“Maybe we just have to work harder,” Lancelot suggested flatly.

“ _Pshaw!_ ”

Lancelot stared at Malduc, who stepped closer—confidentially—to Lancelot.

“Maybe you’re right,” Malduc said.  “We have to be better than good, don’t we?  And there are still so many things to master.”

Lancelot remained silent.

“But what if things were different?”  Again Malduc moved closer.  “What if men were judged by their skills and not their births?  Would you like to live in that world?”

“This world has everything I need.”

“Then why do you walk around so forlorn and lost?  Like you have no place to go?  No place to belong to?  Yes, Sir Lancelot, you and I are kindred spirits—our world is what we make it.”  Malduc looked up at the position of the moon.  “And mine is getting a whole lot freer.  What about you?”

“Like you said, I make my own way,” Lancelot stepped back to leave.

“When our chores are done here, come find me,” Malduc called after him.  “I would love to have your services—and believe me, I will reward you.”

***

 

Sir Balan squatted on the table in his room, sword brandished before him.  His eyes darted back and forth, scanning the ceiling, the floor, the walls.  He was panting softly and a sheen of sweat brightened his face.  Merlin and Gaius couldn’t tell if he noticed their presence.

“Sir Balan,” Gaius said, “why weren’t you at the banquet tonight?”

Heavy breathing was Balan’s only response.  He was a visiting knight, come for the tournament, and he was outfitted in his full armor.  Merlin moved to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Sir Balan,” Merlin said, touching the knight lightly.

“ _Spiders!_ ”  Balan swung his sword wildly; Merlin jumped back, barely avoiding its tip.

“Spiders?” Gaius said.  Balan started twitching, as if he itched somewhere he couldn’t scratch—he tore off his armor, wailing _spiders!_

“He’s panicking,” Gaius said, trying both to calm Balan and stay out of his way.

“He’s scared of spiders,” Merlin said as Balan closed his eyes and took two deep breaths.

“Please don’t tell,” Balan whispered.

“Fear,” Gaius said.  “What if that’s it?  This curse brings out their deepest fears.”

“You sure?” Merlin said.  “Arthur didn’t seem particularly afraid, just . . . worried, even—”

“Panicky?  There are other things to fear besides monsters, Merlin.  Balan fears spiders; I’d say Sir Lamorack fears losing his reputation; Sir Tristan—well I don’t know what he’s afraid of.  But whatever their fear, it makes the men so terrified they have to act out against it.”

“Maybe the curse just turns the knights into pugnacious idiots,” Merlin said.

“You wouldn’t have noticed anything if that was the case,” Gaius said.

Merlin cocked his head, holding up a finger to quiet Gaius.  “Do you hear someone running?” Merlin asked.  He opened the door and Sir Cadoc fell into the room, panting.

“King Mark’s been poisoned.”

***

Queen Isolde rested the back of her hand against her husband’s sweating forehead.  Behind her Brangene stoppered a small vial, which she placed on the table, and picked up the basin—filled with vomit instead of water.  Brangene gave it to one of Mark’s waiting servants and instructed him to dispose of it, and to get fresh water.

Merlin and Gaius passed the servant as they entered the room.

“We believe the poison was added to the water,” Brangene said to Gaius, indicating the ewer.  “Can you determine exactly what kind of poison was used?”

Gaius watched as Isolde examined Mark’s fingernails.

“How much did he get?” Gaius asked.

Isolde nodded to Mark’s other servant.  “I-it’s not the king’s h-habit to drink w-water before bed,” the servant said.  “H-he likes b-brandy—he w-washes his face . . . the water was already here!—it was supposed to be—I got it from the well—it wasn’t—”

“Mark rinses his mouth out,” Brangene interrupted.

“Any poison he swallowed would have been incidental and minute,” Isolde said.

“I see,” Gaius said as the door burst open and Uther marched in followed by Sir Cadoc and two of Mark’s knights.

“How is he?” Uther demanded.

“He’ll recover,” Isolde said.  Uther looked to Gaius.

“I believe his chances are good,” Gaius confirmed.

Uther sighed with relief.  “Do we know who did this?”

“It could have been anybody,” one of Mark’s knights answered.  “We were too busy chasing your murderous sorcerer to protect our own king.”

“Maybe it was the sorcerer,” Cadoc said.  “He couldn’t get to Uther, so he went after Mark.”

“He’s deliberately trying to divide us,” Uther said.

“I did see a man in the corridor,” Isolde stood up, silencing the room.  “He was dressed in full armor—the crest belonged to Sir Tarquin.”

“Dumnonian slime,” the other of Mark’s knights snarled.

“That can’t be,” Cadoc said.  “We apprehended Sir Tarquin in the streets tonight—he was fighting Lancelot—and he had no armor on, only his sword.  We escorted him to his chambers—he’s there now, under guard.”

“Perhaps I should examine the poison, before we jump to conclusions,” Gaius said.

“Yes, of course,” Uther said.

“Sire, I will need some privacy with the patient—Queen Isolde may stay,” Gaius said before Mark’s men could object.  Uther nodded, and they left the room.  Merlin and Brangene also stayed.

“You didn’t see Sir Tarquin,” Gaius said to Isolde.

“I never said I did—I said the crest of the armor belonged to Sir Tarquin.”

“You don’t believe it was him?” Gaius said.  Merlin stared at Brangene—she was watching Isolde carefully.

“I have reason not to—as your knight said—”

“It was you,” Merlin said to Brangene.  “You were the one who saw Tarquin.  I mean, if someone poisoned the water, they’d have done it while Mark was at the banquet—with Isolde.  She couldn’t have seen Mark’s assassin.”

“Would your king have taken my word?” Brangene asked.

“We’re listening,” Merlin said.

***

“You know what’s weird,” Merlin said once they’d left Mark’s chambers.  “The sword flew at Mark.  ‘Death to Uther’, but then the sorcerer tries to hit _Mark_.”

“And you think it’s connected to this attempt?” Gaius said quietly, nodding to Mark’s knights in the corridor.

“I don’t know,” Merlin said.  He glanced around, making sure they were alone.  “Do you think we can lift the curse on Arthur and the others?” 

“Maybe—fear spells used to be very popular,” Gaius said.  “But how this sorcerer cursed so many so quickly—and only knights in the tournament . . .”

“I hate admitting this,” Merlin sighed, “but I wish the dragon was still chained up—he always had the answer.”

“Not that he always gave it freely,” Gaius said.

_Yeah,_ Merlin nodded.  “Maybe I could try to summon him—I know he might not come.”

“He’d have to come, Merlin, you’re a dragonlord—he must do as you command.  But if someone saw you . . .”

“I’d lose my head.”

They’d arrived at the door of Gaius’s chambers—inside Lancelot was waiting.

“I think I know who the sorcerer is,” Lancelot said.

***

Tarquin had been moved to the dungeons—as a precaution.  Uther flew through the subterranean corridor to Tarquin’s cell, Gaius and Merlin on his heels.  They arrived to find the spell still in full effect.

“No—no—Sire,” Tarquin said to Uther.  “You can’t take that peasant’s word over mine—he’s a _peasant_ —I am a nobleman of Dumnonia— _you can’t upset the natural order!”_

“Of course we can’t” Merlin muttered.  Gaius scowled.

“I want Malduc,” Uther said.

“That rat—he’s beneath you.”

“I want him _apprehended_ ,” Uther snarled.

“What is he after?” Gaius said.  “How do we lift his curse?”

“You wish to capture him?” Tarquin said, glancing from Uther to Gaius.  “I know nothing of Malduc’s purposes—he is a fishmonger—stained—I would never choose to associate with him.”

“But you do know him?” Gaius said.

“He was thrust upon me,” Tarquin spat.  “‘Watch him’.  ‘Make sure he doesn’t run’.”

“You were supposed to guard him?” Uther said.  “You’ve made a poor showing of it.”

“ _You dare treat me like a disgrace?_ ” Tarquin jumped at the bars of the cell.  “I followed my orders!  I watched that putrid slime-catcher fail again and again.”

Gaius tried to ask _fail what_ but Uther stopped him, preferring to let Tarquin rant.

“I have _exemplified_ Dumnonian nobility—only to watch lesser men cringe from a fight and piss away their dignity.  Hire a filthy fishmonger . . . I’d have finished Mark off long ago and saved my kingdom.  But Ricatus _fears_ Mark and consorts with _insects_.  And so do you,” Tarquin sneered as his eyes caught Merlin.  “So you know what—you can tell your beloved peasant that when I get out of here, I will drink from his skull!”

Uther pulled Gaius aside.  “Are you sure he’s cursed—I’d say that invective had more hate in it than fear.”

“Fear is often the root of hatred,” Gaius said.  “And he doesn’t know where Malduc is.”

“But he did tell us one thing,” Uther said.  “Ricatus is behind this.”

***

Lancelot glanced at the moon’s position and thought it seemed less bright.  He hadn’t slept.  He closed his eyes and breathed in the deserted streets and felt by the air that dawn was approaching though it was still dark.  He slowly made his way toward the gates of Camelot, wondering how close he would get—maybe he would even exit the city—before Malduc accosted him again.

“Leaving already?  The fun’s just beginning,” Malduc said, the gates looming a few yards away.

“Everyone is looking for you.  Maybe you should leave too.  Especially if the rumor is true.”

“What rumor?”

“That King Mark is dead.  They’ll be arresting everyone even remotely suspicious.”

“That’s why you’re leaving?” Malduc chuckled.  “And here I thought you had Prince Arthur’s favor.”

“Undo whatever you did and I will.”

Malduc was silent for a moment, a relishing smile upon his face.  “You know,” he said, “everything I have and everything I am, I carry—just like you.  If one were to search me, well . . . .  But,” Malduc sniffed himself, “they mistake me for a fishmonger and, strangely, no one’s touched me.  So thank you for your concern, but I’ll be just fine.”

“Will you now,” one of Mark’s knights said.  Two dozen knights appeared from the shadows, half Mark’s men, half Camelot’s.

“Really?” Malduc said to Lancelot. 

The knights circled tighter, until they formed a double-rowed wall around Malduc and Lancelot.  Sir Cadoc and Sir Taran approached Malduc cautiously.  Taran pressed the tip of his sword to Malduc’s throat and Cadoc reached beneath Malduc’s cloak—Malduc had a satchel, slung across his body from one shoulder to the opposite hip, cached against his backside.  In this satchel he kept his magic book, as well as the official list of entrants in the tournament.

***

 

Arthur slowly became aware of his surroundings.  The smell of fresh bread—part of his breakfast—and the scent of sweat—the man standing next to him hadn’t bathed in some time.  But it wasn’t Merlin.  Arthur tried to blink his eyes open, but they were glued shut—he reached up a hand to rub them and realized there was a weight next to him on the bed’s edge.

“Good morning,” Gwen said as Arthur squinted against the brightness of his room.

“How do you feel?” Merlin said.  He was standing at the foot of the bed next to Gaius.  Lancelot stood near Arthur’s pillow.

“Something happened . . . wrong,” Arthur said.

“That’s one way to put it,” Merlin said.

“The tournament!” Arthur jolted upright, nearly tossing Gwen off the bedside.  Lancelot put a reassuring hand on Arthur’s shoulder as Gwen steadied herself.

“The tournament will resume today,” Gaius said.  “All the entrants were affected.”

“We were cursed?” Arthur said.

“Yes,” Gaius said.

“But we lifted the curse, apprehended the sorcerer, saved Camelot—all in a day’s work,” Merlin said.  “No need to thank me—you never do.”

“ _You_ lifted the curse?” Arthur said to Merlin.

“Well,” Gaius said, “the sorcerer had made some adjustments to the spell that—basically it was a poorly-cast spell and it undid itself.”

“Oh.”  Arthur plopped back onto his pillow.  “Who caught the sorcerer?”

“Lancelot did,” Gwen said, smiling up at Lancelot.  Arthur turned his head.

“His name is Malduc,” Lancelot said.  “And it was actually your knights who caught him—I just helped.”

“’Just helped’?  It was your idea how to catch him,” Merlin said.  “You laid the trap.”

“It was a long shot,” Lancelot said.  “I can’t believe it worked.  We were lucky.”

“Don’t be like that, Lancelot,” Gwen said, reaching out to take his hand.  “Nobody else came up with anything.”

Lancelot noticed Arthur staring at Gwen’s hand and pulled away.  “It was nothing, Sire.”

“Lancelot,” Arthur sat up again.  “As strange as it sounds, I think I believe Merlin.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” Lancelot said softly.

“Now everybody out,” Arthur said.  “Now.” 

And as they turned around to leave, Gaius mouthed _good job_ to Merlin.

***

With the spell on the contestants undone and the sorcerer in custody, the people of Camelot were happy to forget them both and enjoy the last rounds of the tournament.  The excitement grew as knights were defeated one by one—and then there were two.

Sir Balan was the final challenger against Arthur, and he was putting up a good fight. 

“I cannot believe Sir Tristan lost to this guy,” Mark said, lounging next to Uther.

“Sir Balan is a fine knight,” Uther replied, not taking his eyes off the fight.  “You just hate to admit that Arthur will win.”

Isolde, on the other side of Mark, reached her hand up to touch Mark’s forehead.  Mark took her hand, briefly pressed it to his cheek, and then interlaced his fingers in hers upon his thigh.  He leaned over to kiss her, landing his lips just on the edge of hers.  Morgana, sitting beside Isolde, patted her arm; Isolde smiled wanly back.

In the entrance to the arena where hopeful contestants had strode confidently in, Merlin, Lancelot, Gwen, Tristan and Brangene regarded the fight as best they could without blocking the opening.  Lancelot stood closest to the arena ground, enthralled by the fight; Gwen behind him stood on tiptoe to peek over his shoulder, equally consumed by Arthur’s fight with Sir Balan;  Brangene ignored both fighters, watching only Isolde, ready to run at the slightest provocation; Tristan lounged against the wall, concerned more with the audience than with the match; Merlin alone was not shy about moving around, and while he enjoyed a tournament, Arthur in a fight was nothing new—Brangene’s sad, attentive face was far more interesting.

“You look after her, don’t you?” he asked her.

“Somebody has to,” Brangene said.

“I know exactly how that is.”

“Arthur is a Prince—no you don’t.”

“I know she’s your friend,” he said.

“So why aren’t you sitting up there with Queen Isolde now,” Tristan asked, startling both Merlin and Brangene with his proximity—neither had heard him approach.  “The champions’ entrance is no place for ladies to lurk.”

“Champions?” Brangene said.  “I’ve seen more losers pass through here.”

Merlin laughed and Gwen suppressed a smile, pretending she was still immersed in the fight.  Tristan slapped Lancelot with the back of his hand.

“Hey,” Tristan said, “she thinks she’s insulting us.  I’ll have you know,” he said to Brangene, “that Lancelot here hasn’t lost a single match.”

“I’m not in the tournament,” Lancelot said, returning his attention to Arthur.

“Details,” Tristan waved him off.  “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask why Guinevere here isn’t sitting next to Lady Morgana,” Brangene replied.

“Guinevere didn’t claim to be Morgana’s friend and protector.”

“Gwen is Morgana’s friend,” Merlin said.  “Just because you keep people at arm’s distance—oh right, you’re a big boy, that’s why you travel alone.”

Gwen turned around.  “Morgana and Isolde wanted to sit together during the last fight, and I wanted—” her eyes darted briefly to Lancelot, “to give other people a chance at a good seat.  Not everyone gets to watch the final fight of a tournament.”

Tristan eyed Gwen up and down, then stared at the crowd.  “The arena certainly is packed.  Too packed for a queen’s friend it would seem.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Gwen said.  “We’re just servants.”

“I am not ‘just’ anything,” Brangene said curtly.  “And a politica—Queen Isolde’s situation—is none of your business,” she stared down Tristan, her cheeks flushed and her upper lip quivering slightly, almost unnoticeably, but enough to give the impression of a snarling wolf.

“I’m sorry,” Tristan said quietly.  “You’re right.” 

In the middle of the arena, Balan knocked Arthur over and the crowd gasped; when Arthur rolled back on his feet, the crowd cheered.

“They’re happy to see men fight,” Tristan said, to nobody in particular.  “Do they cheer like that for anything else?”

Lancelot looked over his shoulder at Tristan.  “You don’t think Arthur and Balan’s skills are impressive?  Not everyone can fight like that—it’s years of training—”

“For a steady hand and a strong mind and a stout heart.  Yeah, I know.” 

A great, triumphant cheer broke the air as people rose to their feet.  Before the kings lay Balan’s unconscious form, his sword still gripped in his right hand.  Standing over him, Arthur removed his helmet and turned around in a circle, surveying the crowd, acknowledging them, letting them see their Prince victorious.  Arthur was panting, sweating and red.  He finally stopped to face the kings—he bowed humbly to King Mark and Queen Isolde, and then nodded to his father; Uther nodded back, regally, properly, no overt pride in his expression, only the acknowledgement of the King for the winning knight of a tournament.

Arthur walked casually toward the exit, the crowd still cheering.  Lancelot, Gwen and Merlin were giddy in Arthur’s win, and they grew more jubilant as he approached.

“Congratulations, Prince Arthur,” Brangene said as he passed, but whether he heard her . . .

“You fight well,” Tristan said.  Arthur had stopped right in front of him.

“You owe me,” Arthur said.

“Sire?”

“You threw your fight with Balan—that should have been you in there.  You owe me.”  He walked on, bumping against Tristan’s shoulder as he passed.  “Merlin!”

“Duty calls,” Merlin said to Gwen and ran to catch up with Arthur.

“Why’d you throw your fight?” Lancelot asked.

“It’s only a tournament,” Tristan said.

***

A servant Arthur didn’t recognize answered his knock.  She curtsied as she held open the door, shutting it behind him once he’d entered Isolde’s chambers.  Then she rejoined another servant in cleaning up Isolde’s bath. A third servant was stoking the fire, and a fourth attended Isolde’s wardrobe. Isolde was sitting on a chair in front of a mirror while Brangene put the finishing touches to her hair.  She wore a purple silk gown and simple jewelry, which enhanced her natural beauty.

“Prince Arthur,” she said, speaking sideways so as not to disrupt Brangene.  “You’re early—I assume the banquet won’t start without us.”

“No,” Arthur said, hands unconsciously playing with the edges of his mantle.  “I was wondering if I could have a moment.”

“Of course,” Isolde said.  Brangene regarded Isolde in the mirror, making sure every hair was in place, and then snapped her fingers.  The four other girls stopped what they were doing and filed out of the room.  Brangene followed them, shutting the door quietly behind her.  Isolde stood from her seat and folded her hands delicately before her.  She stared at Arthur.

“I wanted to thank you,” Arthur said.  “For before.  In Morgana’s chambers.  For your discretion.”

“Prince Arthur, I am a princess—was a princess.  Now I am a queen.  I am a child of discretion.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said relieved.  He held out his left arm.  “Shall we?”

Isolde hooked her arm around his.  “You’re people await.”

They walked silently down the torchlit corridors to the great hall where the last feast of the tournament was held.  But this celebration, unlike the others, had no long table presided over by Uther—this feast held a few tables piled with food of which any man or woman might partake, as well as servants ambling amongst the celebrants with ale, wine and more food.  And somewhere, tucked away in a corner, minstrels played music.

The room fell silent as Prince Arthur and Queen Isolde entered the room.  The crowd parted, leaving a clear path from the door to King Uther and King Mark on the opposite side.  Slowly Arthur escorted Isolde.  Arthur nodded to Sir Balan who stood high on a bench against the wall; Balan raised a gilded cup with a bruised hand in salute.

“It seems Sir Balan is your new bodyguard,” Arthur said quietly.

“So it seems,” Isolde whispered.  They’d arrived before the kings.

“My love,” Mark said to Isolde.

“My lord,” Isolde bowed.  Arthur passed her hand to Mark and the celebration began anew, the hall filled with raucous laughter, cheers, continued conversations, and the aroma of boar, rabbit, chicken and bread.

Amid the noise, Uther patted Arthur on the shoulder. _Good job._

***

Malduc stared through the bars of his cell down the tunnel to where the two guards, one of Camelot, the other Mark’s knight, sat immersed in a chess game.

“Try it and this sword is going in your gut,” Mark’s man yelled, not looking up from the board.  Malduc’s mouth twitched.  He stepped back to the middle of his cell.  He reached to his lower back and pulled folded parchment from beneath his clothes—one of the three pieces was slightly damp from sweat.  He slowly unfolded them, careful not to let the guards hear the crinkling.  He scowled.  He folded the parchment up and tucked them back into his trousers, beneath his shirt.  He bent down and reached into his boot, up his trouser leg and pulled out another set of folded parchment, but these also did not contain what he sought.  So he turned to his other leg. 

As he read the spells on one of those two sheets of parchment, he smiled.

***

With Arthur and Isolde’s grand entrance already forgotten, the celebration commenced in full—eating, drinking, company—music and wine—all the accoutrements of revelry a person could want.  Jeweled ladies flirted with knights; Merlin and Gwen, as servants, wandered the party keeping cups brimming with wine; Uther, Mark, Gaius, and several of Camelot’s elders discussed King Ricatus and territory disputes; Arthur chatted with Sir Balan; and Isolde and Brangene were laughing with Morgana.

“Sir Tristan,” Morgana said to Tristan’s back as he was talking to other knights.  He turned around to face the ladies, as his companions muttered _lucky dog_ and resumed their conversation.

“I hear you don’t think Camelot’s tournaments are worth winning,” Morgana continued.

“Not at all, my lady,” Tristan said, staring afar at Gwen as she filled Lancelot’s cup with a warm smile.  “But your maid misunderstood me.”

“Arthur says you threw your match,” Morgana said.

“Yes,” Tristan reluctantly admitted.  “There’s more to life than tournaments.  It doesn’t mean I don’t respect you or your king.”

“Is there?” Isolde said quietly, mostly to herself.

“Is there what?” Tristan turned to her.

“More in life,” Isolde replied.  “I thought all knights wanted the glory of the win.”

“So I’ve been told,” Tristan said.  “But haven’t you ever wondered if you could be something else?  If you could have a say in your own destiny?”

“I did have a say,” Isolde said defiantly.

“You’re lucky,” Tristan said, then stared into his cup.  “From the moment I was born, I had people telling me what I had to be—a knight—I was a nobleman, after all.  _You’re going to be the greatest,_ they all said.  It was decided.  But that sorcerer’s spell—that we’re all supposed to hate—made me think.  Is fighting really the epitome of manhood?”

Tristan looked up from his cup, deep into Isolde’s eyes.

“I realized,” he continued, “that I wanted to be what I made myself, not what my birth said I had to be.”

“It’s a nice wish,” Isolde said after a moment. With a sympathetic hand on her arm, Brangene escorted her away.

“You’re right,” Morgana said.  “It is just a tournament.”  Then she followed Isolde and Brangene to another corner of the hall.  Tristan stared back into his cup.

From across the room, Arthur watched Morgana rejoin Isolde and Brangene.  Morgana said something and Isolde smiled sadly.  Morgana said something else and Isolde smiled broadly, almost laughing—she perked up proudly, regaining her composure.

“More wine, Sire?” Gwen said at Arthur’s ear.

“Morgana’s avoiding me,” Arthur said as Gwen filled his cup.

“Don’t be silly.”

“She’s barely spoken to me since we got her back from Morgause.”

“She’s barely spoken to anyone,” Gwen said.  “She’s just trying to cope with what happened to her.  Being cursed and kidnapped by a witch can’t have been easy.”

Arthur was silent, watching Morgana and Isolde talk.  It seemed as though they were immersed in their own secret little world.  “You’re right,” he said to Gwen.  “I shouldn’t worry—Isolde managed to draw her out.  Everything’s going back to normal.”

“Whatever that is,” Gwen said.

_Yeah,_ Arthur laughed.  He stared hard at Gwen.  “Do you think she’s happy with Mark?  Queen Isolde, I mean.”

“I-I really don’t know.  Mark is a powerful king, isn’t he?”

“Is that what a woman wants?  Power?”

“Of course not.  I mean—I wouldn’t, anyway—but I’m not Queen Isolde.”

“So what do you want?” Arthur asked.

“It doesn’t matter.  I have duties to attend to.  My lord,” Gwen curtsied and melded into the crowd.  She wound her way over to where Merlin stood, decanter in hand, watching Lancelot.  Lancelot, clean and freshly dressed—not in formal knightly attire, but in a shirt borrowed from Arthur—was chatting comfortably with Sirs Lamorack, Cadoc and Taran.

“He belongs in Camelot,” Merlin said proudly.

“Yes he does,” Gwen said.

Lancelot, meanwhile, had no idea he was being observed—by Arthur as well.

“Next time, just kill the guy,” Sir Taran was saying, sitting beside Lancelot.

“That wouldn’t look good,” Lamorack said, standing next to Taran.

“It’s self-defense,” Taran protested.

“It’s a peasant killing a knight,” Lancelot said.

“In self-defense,” Taran said.  “Peasants don’t have to just lie down if some high-born asshole decides he wants to slaughter them.”

“A real nobleman would never consider such an action,” Cadoc said.

“Well there you have it,” Taran said, raising his cup.  “Tarquin’s not a real nobleman—you’re free and clear.  Because trust us,” he looked to Cadoc, “Tarquin thinks peasants are less than cattle.”

“You won’t have to worry about any of this,” Lamorack said to Lancelot.  “King Mark will probably execute him.”

“Uther’s letting Mark take him?” Lancelot asked.

“Since Tarquin was plotting against Mark, I guess Uther felt it was just and fitting that Mark decide his fate,” Cadoc said.

“Mark is taking the sorcerer, too,” Lamorack said.

“That one surprised us,” Taran said, then added as he took another drink, “I wonder what Camelot got in return.” 

_Taran_ , Cadoc muttered under his breath.

“What happens if they escape?” Lancelot asked.

“Then Mark better watch his back,” Taran said.

“And you yours,” Cadoc added.  “Tarquin seems the type to hold a grudge.”

“Welcome to the party!” Taran said, slapping Lancelot on the back.

“Cheers,” Lancelot said, as they all drank.

***

Uther stared into the fire.  A soft, chill breeze wafted in through an open window of his chambers—also, a slight retreat in the darkness, indicating that dawn was near.  Uther was stone sober.  He watched the flame lick the edges of the book, but the book was proving stubborn.

“Why not burn it publicly, with his execution?” Arthur asked, standing at attention beside his father.  It was just the two of them in the vague darkness, staring at the cleansing, private fire.

“Because the extermination of magic is not actually a spectacle, Arthur,” Uther said as the book finally caught.  “It is a hard lesson.”  Uther glanced quickly at his son.  “If magic wins, we all pay the price.”

***

The sun was well above the horizon, but still below the castle towers when Gwen burst into Gaius’s chambers.  Gaius, Merlin and Lancelot looked up from breakfast.

“They’ve escaped,” Gwen said, her voice strained.  Lancelot stood up.

“Malduc and Tarquin, I assume,” Gaius said.  Gwen nodded.

“Of course they have,” Merlin muttered as Lancelot demanded, “When?”

“Sometime last night.”

“Gaius!” Sir Cadoc called, peering through the open doorway.  “The King needs you.”

***

In the great hall, a heated debate:  Uther stood in front of his throne, with Mark circling him.  Arthur and Gaius stood in front of Uther, as if awaiting an audience with him.  Several of Camelot’s guards were at their stations along the wall, and Sir Cadoc stood back a ways, closer to the door.  Merlin and Lancelot had stashed themselves along the wall, between two of the guards, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

“How could you let this happen?” Mark demanded.  Uther rolled his eyes at the predictable query.

“Your knight didn’t exactly prove useful,” Uther said.  “And blaming me doesn’t help.”

“King Mark,” Arthur stepped forward, “Camelot won’t rest until Malduc and Tarquin are brought to justice.”

“Don’t bother,” Mark said, adjusting his sleeves.  “No disrespect,” he added upon seeing the fire in Uther’s face.  “But this is politics as usual—you know that, Uther.  Frankly, I was surprised Ricatus didn’t try something sooner.”

“He’s likely to try again,” Uther said.

“And the only thing he’ll give me is permission to bring my army into Dumnonia.  A man has a right to protect himself from assassins, after all.”

“Why not reach out to Ricatus with a peace offering?” Arthur asked.

“Arthur . . .” Uther said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Mark said.

“Ricatus doesn’t want a war, and he doesn’t want to lose his kingdom.  Meet with him.”

“Prince Arthur,” Mark sneered, “when you grow up and learn the ways of the world, _then_ you can give me advice.  Until that day—”

“Enough!” Uther said.  “Our immediate problem is the sorcerer and his accomplice.”

“ _My_ immediate problem,” Mark said.  “This is one sorcerer who is not concerned with you, Uther.”

“He threatened us,” Arthur said. “’Death to Uther’, remember?”

“A feint—to conceal his true intentions,” Mark said.  “This is my problem, Uther, and I will deal with it.  Ricatus’s assassins will pursue me—you won’t have to worry about them once I leave for Tintagel.”

“And if next time they succeed?” Uther asked.

“Also my problem.”

“What about Isolde?” Arthur asked.  “She’ll be in danger, too.”

“She’ll have a personal bodyguard,” Mark said.  “I do not need your help.”

“Fine,” Uther said.  “But Camelot will come to your aid when you need it.”

“Don’t worry, Uther,” Mark said as he turned to leave.  “There’s plenty more sorcerers out there hungry for your hide.”

***

 

Merlin carried a tray of food into Gaius’s chambers—lunch for himself and Lancelot.  Lancelot, however, was not interested.  He came out of Merlin’s room in the same dirty travel wear he’d arrived in—dusty boots, chainmail that had a few bloodstains concealed in its rings, his sword, a dagger, a knife.  He glanced at Merlin sheepishly.

“Lancelot  . . .” Merlin said, setting the food down on the table.  “You’re going after Malduc and Tarquin, aren’t you.”

“I have to,” Lancelot said, walking past Merlin and out the door.

“You heard Mark,” Merlin called as he ran after him, “they’re his problem.”

Lancelot continued walking—out onto the street where the sunlight shifted with the passing clouds.  “Tarquin wants me dead,” he said when Merlin had caught up.  “I’d say that could be a problem for me.”

Merlin tried to find a response, but couldn’t.  He trailed after Lancelot through Camelot until they neared the gate and saw Arthur standing beside a black horse, as though waiting. 

“Arthur,” Merlin said, “tell Lancelot to stay.  You need him.”

Arthur offered the reins to Lancelot.  “Here,” he said.  “And try not to lose it this time.”

Merlin glared at Arthur, defeated.  Lancelot glanced at the reins; then accepted them.  He patted the horse’s nose.

“How’d you know?” Lancelot asked quietly.

“It’s what I would do,” Arthur replied.

“Thank you, Sire,” Lancelot said.  He nodded at Merlin and then led the horse away.

“He has to do this, Merlin,” Arthur said.

“He’ll be back,” Merlin said.

Lancelot continued on, out of Camelot, down the road, walking beside the horse—until, ahead, he saw Gwen watching him.  She stood in the shade at the edge of the forest, wrapped in a shawl, hugging herself, even though the day was warm and mild.  Lancelot glanced behind him, at Camelot—he could even hear the echoes of the market—but he and Gwen were alone.

“Am I that obvious?” he said once he was close enough to her.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. . . . Gwen . . .”

“Don’t go.”  In her hand, she clutched a small note—when Lancelot saw it, he sighed.  “Is this how you say goodbye?” she demanded.

“I—didn’t know how . . . to say—everything—”

Gwen leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him gently.  “I don’t need everything,” she said.

Hands upon her face, Lancelot kissed her back, a soft, lingering kiss.

“I have to go,” he said, his hand still caressing her cheek.  “I have to find Tarquin before he finds me.  I have to make sure Malduc isn’t out for revenge.  I didn’t ask for this, but I’m involved—I have to do something.”

Gwen nodded. “Come back,” she said softly.

Slowly releasing her, Lancelot mounted his horse.  “Always.”

***

Mark had decided to depart early, which for a royal cortege meant mid-morning.  The sun was bright and the clouds full and white as servants ran between castle and carts with supplies and trunks.  Mark’s knights adjusted their saddles and cooed to their horses—some were already mounted.  On two sides of the square before the castle, Camelot’s knights formed a ceremonial line—a stationary processional through which Mark and his retinue—currently bustling in the middle—would pass.  On to the ruins of Tintagel.

Close to the steps of the castle, Sir Tristan lifted Brangene into her saddle while Isolde said goodbye to Morgana.  The ladies kissed each other on each cheek, and then Morgana moved away, ascending halfway up the steps to stand behind Arthur, who surveyed the scene with detachment.   

Uther and Mark emerged from the castle just as Tristan was lifting Isolde up onto her horse.  Both Isolde and Brangene wore dark, woolen dresses, and rode side-saddle.  Isolde waved one last time to Morgana and then turned toward the castle to await her husband as he descended the steps with Uther.   Tristan mounted his horse.

“I see your queen has her champion,” Uther said.

“She insisted on Sir Tristan,” Mark said proudly.  “My queen has a good eye for form.”

“Tristan would rather earn a coin for a tune, you know.”

“Then he can entertain us, too,” Mark said.  “Are you jealous, Uther?”

“ _Hah!_   You wanted him anyway— so don’t blame your queen if Tristan son of Talloch gives you trouble.  Perhaps you should have gone with Balan—after all, there was an understanding—”

“No—there was a rumor.  I specifically said I would choose whoever impressed me.  I never said anything about second-placers.  You just don’t want to admit Tristan can beat Arthur.”

“Anytime you want to find out,” Uther turned to Mark, offering his arm.  Mark clasped it, hand to elbow.  Both kings smiled broadly.

“It was good to see you, Uther—even if you have gotten slow.”

“It was good to see you, Mark—even if you are still a fool.  You can always count on Camelot, don’t forget that.”

“You worry too much, Uther,” Mark said as he mounted his horse, his vanguard already riding away.  “It’s making you old.”

Mark quickly squeezed Isolde’s hand and shouted the order to go.  He trotted away—his wife and her maid and her bodyguard close behind.  Uther, Arthur and Morgana watched until the entire company was out of sight—then Uther took Morgana’s arm and escorted her inside while Arthur dismissed his men.  The knights marched off in disciplined lines. 

Merlin came out from the castle doorway.  He descended the steps until he stood beside Arthur, but the prince seemed lost in thought.

“Can I ask a stupid question?” Merlin eventually said.

“Do you ask any other kind?”

“Why is Mark right?”

“What do you mean?” Arthur turned to Merlin.

“Everybody’s acting like Mark is just some poor victim.”

“Somebody tried to assassinate him, Merlin.”

“Which is politics as usual, apparently,” Merlin said.

Arthur turned and slowly ascended the stairs.  Merlin matched him step for step.

“Mark’s going to conquer Dumnonia, isn’t he?” Merlin asked.

“Ricatus gave him a reason.”  Arthur’s tone was neutral.

“Yeah—but . . . Mark was going to do it anyway, wasn’t he?”

Arthur said nothing, but paused and looked back out over the mostly-deserted square.

“Your idea was the best,” Merlin said.

“For all the good it did.”

“Mark is stupid.”

“Mark is a _king_.”

“So he gets to do whatever he wants?”

“It’s not that simple, Merlin,” Arthur turned back up the steps.

“Even a king should have to answer to somebody.  Or do they not think there’s any law above their own?” Merlin raced to keep up.

“Merlin,” Arthur said.  “Shut up.”

Merlin waited a moment until they entered the castle.  “So what happens to Dumnonia?”

“Would it really kill you to do what I say?  Just once?  And don’t you have duties?—I do,” Arthur said as he left Merlin standing alone in the shadowy corridor.

***

 

In his throne room, Ricatus of Dumnonia spoke with several of his knights.  War was looming, and they knew it.  From outside the room, a crash resounded, then a shout.  Each of the knights ran out, sword in hand.  Ricatus heard the sounds of a fight, and he glanced toward the hidden door behind the throne.  Then a voice from the corridor: _Protect the King!_   The great doors slammed shut before his eyes, the wind from the impact hitting his face.  Ricatus was alone.

All the torches simultaneously flamed out.

Ricatus sighed, with relief and impatience.  “Malduc, if you’ve come to explain your failure—”

“Please,” Malduc’s voice echoed in the dark—then the torches flared alight—Malduc stood eye-to-eye with Ricatus, startling the king.

“I came to say,” Malduc continued, “that I’ve considered your offer of serving openly at your side—”

“An offer contingent upon Mark’s death.  You are and have nothing here.”

“ . . . and I’ve decided to pursue other options.”

Something hit the great doors—as though invaders had a battering ram.  Ricatus glanced toward the noise, and in that second Malduc stabbed him.  Ricatus gazed first at his abdomen, where Malduc’s blade was deeply buried—Malduc twisted it—then to Malduc’s face, which stared back at Ricatus, a concentrated singularity of hate.  Ricatus’s weight began to crumble forward; Malduc swiftly pulled out the knife.

Ricatus fell to the ground in the fetal position.  Malduc bent down and withdrew a kerchief from the king’s sleeve and wiped the blood from his hands and knife.

“H-he-elp . . .” Ricatus gasped feebly.  But the only response was the voice of one of his knights yelling _keep slicing—get these demon bastards._   Malduc sighed.

“They _look_ so impressive,” he said, once again pretending.  He took a sheet of parchment from his lower back.  He shook his head as he stared at it.  “I guess Rhydderch recorded a faulty spell—unfortunate.”  He held the parchment up and his eyes flashed.  A flame burst alight on one corner of the parchment.  Malduc dropped it to the floor.  “But I am learning,” he said, taking a last look at Ricatus dying on the floor.

Ricatus stared back at Malduc, the sounds of combat still seeping into the room.  Malduc’s eyes flashed gold and the torches went out—the last glowing scraps of parchment the only light or warmth.

***

Merlin stared at a candle in his room.  He moved his thumb and index finger together as though slowly pinching the air in front of his face.  As his finger and thumb came closer, the flame shrank, getting dimmer and dimmer until he released his fingers and the flame sprang back to its full height.

“I brought you something,” Gaius said, entering the room.  “I managed to exchange it.”  He placed a book on Merlin’s bed.

Merlin said nothing, just gazed at the candle.

“I thought you’d be happy to have another magic book,” Gaius said.  “Merlin?”

“I was just thinking about Morgana,” he said.  “She was right about Mark being the real target.  Do you think she dreamed it?” Merlin turned around toward Gaius.

“I think she was angry and trying to deflect suspicion—that’s not the same thing as prophecy.”

“Do you think—She had nothing to do with this sorcerer—Maybe her destiny hasn’t arrived yet.  Maybe it won’t come—”

“It will, Merlin.  And you need to be ready.”

***

Two candles burned on Morgana’s table as she dipped a quill into an inkwell.  They provided the only light.  Before her lay a small strip of parchment; in her left hand she clutched Morgause’s crumpled note, and on her wrist, the candlelight threw gilded reflections into the darkness from the bracelet Morgause had given her.

 

_\--end--_


End file.
